A Step Too Far
by SnowCrazy15
Summary: When John overreacts to Sherlock's new apparel, the detective senses something amiss within his flatmate. Only when he starts to investigate does Sherlock stumble across one of John's best kept secrets. But why didn't John tell him? And how is the docile doctor connected to London's most recent string of brutal murders? *Rated M for later chapters. *Johnlock*slash*mystery*
1. Flushed Cheeks: Embarrassment

**Hello there! **

**So this is the first chapter of a little Sherlock fic that I've started. I'm intending it to become a Johnlock (Sherlock/John) piece as it develops, but I've also got an idea for a case - so it will have an actual plot as well! Let me know what you think, I've tried a different writing style in this. I thought as Sherlock is a very English and well-spoken person, the piece should resemble this. And also, my brain has become a thesaurus. So yeah. Leave a comment and tell me what you think and if I should continue or not. **

**Oh, and if this chapter seems a little confusing, don't worry - it'll be explained in the next chapter ^^**

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_"She's in para, para, paradise… para, para, parad – "_

The words to his quiet tune were cut off as John raised his eyes upwards and took in the scene playing out before him. The four plastic bags rattled as they hit the scuffed wooden floor of his shared apartment, but all John's focus was dead ahead.

It was on the ivory-skinned man who was hunched over a small microscope, staring intently at mysteries the doctor couldn't even begin to fathom. The sight was not unnatural to the doctor, quite the contrary in fact. When the two of them weren't running around London, Sherlock Holmes found other ways to exert his genius. Yet as John's eyes travelled over the translucent ivory skin, he felt his throat becoming unbearably dry.

"Sh – Sherlock?"

The Consulting Detective didn't so much as glance upwards, instead extending a slender finger to the dial, clicking it forward before studying the glass slide more intently.

"What… what the hell are you doing?"

John wasn't sure if it was his exasperated tone, or the disbelief on his face that made Sherlock's piercing eyes glance upwards, but glance he did.

"Really, John. You are so predictable sometimes. It's boring."

There was a witty remark sitting behind his teeth, but John only bit it back. He felt his cheeks humming with the scarlet that adorned them. He bit back his embarrassment and shoved it downwards to his chest where he morphed it into a bitter anger. A familiar, controlled, unbiased anger.

Yet he still found himself glued to the spot, staring at his flatmate. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Sherlock must have felt John's gaze because he looked up again, but this time his perfectly arched raven eyebrows weren't creased together. He seemed to look over the doctor in a steady sweep, taking him in for the first time. John sudden became aware that he looked like a fool. He felt his stomach roll at the image he presented, so instead to yelling at the detective more, he simply grabbed the dropped shopping and stormed into the kitchen.

Sherlock followed the doctor's path with his intense eyes, recording each and every detail of the man temporarily in his brain.

_Flushed cheeks. Ruffled hair. Tense shoulders and neck. Fleck of tea on front of shirt. Rumpled jumper. Scuffed shoe. Black smudge on left palm. Dilated pupils. Unshaven cheeks. Blood under right index nail. _

Sherlock turned back to the microscope, his mind racing as it came to the conclusion that John had had a stressful day at work. He had woken up late with no time to shave, hastily made a cup of tea and spilled it unknowingly onto his shirt. Then he had almost missed the bus, running to catch it and scuffing his usually pristine shoes on the curb as he boarded. The clinic had been busy from start to finish, giving John no time for lunch thus there were no smells on him beside cheap coffee that his assistant had brought him every hour. The caffeine rush had dilated his pupils, giving him the illusion of extra energy. His last patient had been a woman. Young. Crying. John had comforted her, thus the smudge of eyeliner on his palm. Then he had taken blood, but the caffeine had long since turned, dampening his skills and causing him to miss the vein. The blood got onto his hand, and he had washed it but not as precisely as usual because he was set on leaving. His hair had been ruffled from John's unconscious habit of running his fingers through his hair. It was a gesture of impatience and somehow calmed him.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, focusing his attention on the perfect replica of John in his mind. Dilated pupils, caffeine. Flushed cheeks –

He stopped and leant back in his seat.

John had showed anger when he entered the room, which wasn't unusual for his flatmate. They rarely spoke normally unless both their minds were focused on the same thing. Sherlock found that John's tolerance was certainly beginning to bend to the genius's unusual tendencies but more often than not, the doctor was angry at him.

Yet from his knowledge of John Watson and his habits, flushed cheeks were not a sign of anger. The doctor's military training had subdued John's ability of outwardly hostile emotions, and to others he was unreadable. But Sherlock could deduce things about the doctor that others just wouldn't comprehend.

As he let his thoughts whir around his brain, a sound caught his attention. There was a sweet clink before John padded back into the room, two unmatched mugs in his hands.

"Oh for the love of _Christ_, Sherlock! Put some bloody clothes on!"

_Ah… flushed cheeks: embarrassment._

He sighed and turned back to the microscope, ignoring the doctor's request and examining the sample more closely. He vaguely heard the thump of a mug on his desk before following John's heavy feet up the stairs. The doctor's door slammed with finality but Sherlock barely gave it a passing thought as he noticed a small rise in the blood sample under the lense.

He paced. Back and forth, back and forth. John ran his fingers through his short hair before folding his arms over his chest. Of all the things that the man could have done…

He sighed and sat on the edge of his unmade bed. Reaching out for the steaming mug, he cupped it in both hands and let the warmth seep into his cold fingers. The weather had turned almost instantly and it was bitterly cold outside. It didn't help that he was in such a rush that morning that he forgot his coat.

What a day. The clinic had been crawling with people, Maggie had called in sick so his workload had been doubled. After a girl started crying at him that she was pregnant, he was done. Nine straight hours with no break, no food and only coffee had landed him in a foul mood. The last thing he needed was to come home to a naked flatmate, bearing his birthday suit without shame or modesty.

It was the last thing that he wanted to come to.

_Are you sure…?_

There was a gentle stirring in the pit of his stomach making the doctor cringe. He took a deep gulp of his searing hot tea, burning his tongue in some twisted way to punish his conscience. In actual fact, he just punished himself.

John sighed heavily, resting his forehead on his palm.

Maybe he overreacted. Sherlock wasn't exactly normal so he couldn't blame him for not understanding a normal person or normal personal boundaries. The soft side of his emotions caressed his chest, bringing his guilt to the surface and making him come to the realisation that he should apologise. He could just remember seeing a pile of clothes by Sherlock's hunched figure and if nothing else, he could at least blackmail the man into putting on some boxers.

So with his tea in the left hand and his right in his pocket, John steadily made his way back downstairs to face the music.

Or, well, Sherlock.

As he guessed, the noirette hadn't moved from his position at the microscope. He didn't even tense as John slowly walked over to him.

"Sherlock, can… can I have a word?"

He watched as the detective's bright eyes swam over the microscope lens, seeing things that John wouldn't ever be able to see. Even just watching him, John couldn't help but be in awe. Sherlock was a walking contradiction of person and robot. No tedious emotions holding him back from his pursuit of knowledge. John, after nearly a whole year with the man was still unsure whether to worship him or pity him.

"What?"

His voice was thick with its usual impatience, but John had learnt not to become offended by it, but sometimes the detective pushed a button too many.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. I'm listening. What's making you so uncomfortable?"

The doctor frowned. "Why would you say that?"

Keeping his azure eyes on the microscope, Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Your hand is in your pocket because you don't know what to do with it. Your other hand is gripping the mug so tightly that I can see the white of your knuckles. Your cheeks are still flushed and your eyes are looking everywhere but at me; the clear object of your uneasiness. You feel guilty for raising your voice at me, which is unnecessary but you have a need to apologise nonetheless. Let me save you the breath and accept the apology now so that you can carry on with your day, and I can carry on with mine."

John grit his teeth before slamming the mug on the table. The sudden noise caused the detective to jump slightly and finally raise his eyes to John's.

"Don't be such an arsehole, Sherlock."

"I was just st-"

"Stating a fact', yes. I've heard it before. But have you ever considered that people don't want to hear the facts? We don't need to go around listening to your self-assured bullshit all the time, OK? Jesus…"

Sherlock frowned, turning his focus onto the man before him. John's outburst had been unexpected, but he found himself intrigued. Only when he shifted all of his attention to John did he really see the doctor. His breathing was erratic, his brow was sweating, his pupils were still huge, drowning out the honeyed warmth that was usually there, and he was irrationally angry. The detective licked his dry lips as the man before him turned, raking a hand through his short ashen hair.

With his back still to the noirette, John heaved a sigh.

"I'm going… out."

The last word was whispered and Sherlock found himself studying his back as he retreated from the flat and out of sight. He frowned, not an uncommon gesture, but this time his mind wasn't picking through a case or an experiment. The detective let out a long breath, steadily retreating into his Mind's Palace, flitting through his saved memories of the doctor.

_John Hamish Watson. Thirty-four. Military Doctor, served for twelve years before being Honourably Discharged. Birthday, May fifteenth. Taurus. No religious preference. Non-smoker, although experimented in school. In a non-committed relationship with superior. Seemingly sociably accepted._

As far as he could tell, John was an average man.

He felt a familiar stirring within his mind as his attention was shifted from his experiment to his flatmate. Leaning back in the chair, he considered the multitude of possibilities of the doctor's obvious distress.

_Obvious exhaustion, causing heightened emotions. Discomfort around myself, most probably because of current predicament. _

Sherlock ran through other possibilities but the first summary seemed the most likely. He sighed and reached carelessly to the floor and the pile of discarded clothing there. With minimal effort, the detective managed to shrug himself into his boxers which were only partially scorched. Feeling immensely irritated, Sherlock turned back to his microscope and to the sample that could crack his current case.

"One more."

"Sorry, mate. Last call was twenty minutes ago."

John frowned, glancing up at the barman. He could only just make out his outline through the dark din of the pub. It was practically empty and he only just noticed that the stools and chairs were piled neatly atop the tables.

He gave a frustrated sigh before necking back the last mouthful of his bitter beer.

"Do you want me to call you a taxi, mate?"

John blinked, attempting again to look at the barman. He seemed quite burly, with a very shiny head. It was that or the glint of the light against the mirror behind him. The doctor rubbed his eyes, exhaustion sweeping over him in waves. He shook his head, reaching again for the pint glass that he only just remembered was empty before shuffling himself unsteadily onto his feet.

John found himself gripping the bar as the world around him took a vertigo turn. He swore he could see the ceiling before a deep rumble brought him back to earth.

"… call you a taxi."

"No! I'm… fine. I live…" his voice trailed off as he wound his arm backwards to point in some kind of direction that his frazzled mind thought to be 'home'.

He didn't see the sceptical look that the barman gave him because John was already making his way towards the door. He wrenched the wooden slate open so quickly that he nearly hit his own face with it. After a second of staring, he chuckled and walked into the bitterly cold night air. The street was familiar but John didn't really pay much attention to anything as he crisscrossed over the pavement. He very nearly toppled over the curb a handful of times, each time only laughing louder. He let his voice carry over the quiet night as he recited, beautifully in his mind, a song from his childhood.

Perhaps it was because of his drunken state, or the way he hollered _Eye of the Tiger_ at the top of his lungs, that John was so completely oblivious to the presence lurking behind him. It moved within the shadows as if it was wearing them and watched as the fool made his way slowly down the street. It hid from lamps, watching as the fool turned another corner, and then gave a demonic smile as it realised the drunk was heading into a dead end. As it slipped it's hand into the inside of it's jacket to retrieve a small blade that glinted with glee in it's palm, the figure slipped easily through the shadows and into the rhythm of it's intended victim's stride.

It raised the blade, levelling it with the bare nape of the fool's neck and flashing it's bright canines, brought the knife clean down.

There was just a brief second where the assailant was stumped, not feeling the fleshy thump of it's knife within it's victim. Then, as it was thrown backwards and howled in pain as something connected with it's nose did it really take in it's surroundings. It saw a flash of ivory before another blow to the face left it slumping on the curb, moaning and motionless.

He winced as he rolled his shoulders, feeling the pain smoking up his arms and biceps. Sherlock let himself catch a breath as he studied the man at his feet. Dirty. Crazy. Unconscious. He turned his eyes briefly to his right, sighing as he saw John's wobbly frame still making it's way carelessly down the street and singing that god-awful song. The detective gave out a frustrated grunt before sliding out his cool metallic phone. Typing a quick text to Lestrade, Sherlock then started forward at a jog to catch up with his idiotic housemate.

"_'Cos it's the, dum, Eye of the_ – Sherlock!"

"I believe it's the Tiger, but OK."

"What're… what'cha doing here?" he slurred, reaching out to grasp the noirette in a crushing hug. Sherlock winced as he felt the pressure on his forearms, but allowed the drunken fool to have his moment of abhorred affection.

"I thought that I'd just take a leisurely stroll at –" he glanced at John's exposed watch. "Two o'clock in the morning."

"Oh. That's nice." John moved back, giving a sluggish shrug, completely oblivious to Sherlock's sarcasm.

"I s'pose it's good that, that you did 'cos… 'cos I don't really know where I am."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the man before him. He was swaying dangerously on his feet and staring, it seemed, into nothingness. When he hadn't heard from the idiot for over six hours, Sherlock had developed some kind of ungraspable pressure in his chest that he diagnosed as anxiety. He had texted the doctor, then rang, then texted again, but all to no avail. Finally deciding that John deserved a slap, Sherlock had left the comfort of his home to seek the twat out.

But now, as honeyed eyes blinked at him innocently from under a clueless face, Sherlock couldn't find it within himself to be angry. It was curious indeed, the sudden shift in his emotions, and one he would have to study further but only within the safety of four walls. He wasn't sure if he could be subtle with John hanging from his arm.

"Come on, you idiot. Let's go."

He saw the man frown, some semblance of the insult registering in the back of his mind, before the alcohol washed it away and he was back within his state of obnoxious ignorance.

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**Thank you for reading!**

**And also, if you're a writer and looking for a beta, then I've just registered as one. The info is in my profile or on the beta section of FanFiction. Or just send me a PM :-)**


	2. Dilated Pupils: Rage

**Hi again! So, I'm really sorry that it's been so long since I've updated! I'm so shocked that this story's got so many followers, and thank you all for reviewing! It makes me an incredibly happy bunny when I read them, so please continue doing so!**

**Xmas and New Year kicked my ass, and I fell behind in life - which is actually possible to do - and I'm only now just catching up. Now I'm back at Uni and new chapters will probably be slightly erratic, although I am going to re-watch Sherlock again soon to, um... 'characterize'. Not to stare at Martin Freeman. Not at all. **

**Enjoy!**

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The pain that welcomed him the moment he opened his eyes was both uninvited and yet he knew it was inevitable. He wasn't entirely sure how much he had drank the night before. Come to think of it, he didn't remember much after his fourth pint. From the way his stomach rolled, he knew that he didn't eat anything before he started drinking.

Really, he couldn't think of the reason he actually turned to booze. He knew in the back of his mind that it was because of something that Sherlock had done. It was always something that Sherlock did. The man was the embodiment of the bizarre.

Part of him knew that he should have been used to it. Hell, he had walked in to see the man hanging from the ceiling fan by a tie. At first he had panicked, then Sherlock had kindly asked him to stop screaming as he was trying to concentrate.

He slowly opened and closed his mouth, attempting to wet his dry throat but all to no avail. His body was begging him for water, but the pounding in his head was keeping him subdued.

John knew that as soon as he lifted his head from the pillow that his hangover would hit him harder than a sledgehammer to the face. The doctor groaned as he slowly untangled his legs from the restraints of the duvet. Each new movement sent a ripple of uneasiness down his nerves and into his stomach, causing inhuman grunts and groans to slip through his lips until he was completely engulfed within his own self-pity.

Just as he felt the contents of his stomach beginning to rebel, there was a rhythmic thumping ascending towards his room. It took him longer than he cared to admit to understand that footsteps were approaching him, but the revelation was interrupted as the said individual burst through the door, showering light directly into his watery eyes.

John hissed and cowered under his blanket as Sherlock studied him from the doorway.

"Shut the door," croaked the doctor, all too aware of how pathetic he sounded.

"I came to see if you had chocked on your own vomit during the night. As you haven't, I'll leave you to it."

The doctor groaned, shifting himself on the mattress until his back faced the door. He didn't want to see those piercing eyes. He didn't want to face that penetrating glare. He was nauseous, tired and irritable. Sherlock would undoubtedly say something horrid and he would react to it like a moth to flame, and John found that he just didn't have the energy.

"OK. See you later."

Even though John tried to keep his tone dismissive, he couldn't help but wince as he heard the slight pang of longing in his own voice. When he didn't hear Sherlock shuffle from the room he inwardly cursed himself, knowing that the detective must have picked up the neediness in his tone. John kept himself perfectly still, wondering what Sherlock was going to do. He could just make out the faint sigh of Sherlock's breathing. It was something so basic, so trivial, and yet in his disorientated state was like music. He frowned.

"Do… do you want… uh…"

Out of pure shock, John pulled down his blanket and revealed his disheveled face, just so he could see for himself.

Sure enough, Sherlock's face mirrored his sheepish tone of voice. Never, in the entire year they had worked together, had John seen the detective looking so unsure. His bright eyes were cast downwards and there was an unusual tint of pink flushing his sculpted cheeks. Even his body, usually held so arrogantly straight was hunched, casting his uneasiness outwardly in the room. John blinked in an attempt to see clearly, but he realised that his eyes weren't playing tricks.

Sherlock was actually indeterminate.

"S – Sherlock? You alright?"

At the sound of John's hoarse voice, Sherlock snapped from his unsettled state and straightened. His face became a blank slate once again before he tore his azure eyes away from the doctor and stormed from the room, not even bothering to close the door.

John felt his entire body come to a standstill. What was _that_?

It unsettled him so much that all thought of staying in bed rushed from his mind. He grit his teeth against the pain in his head and slowly got to his feet. He was surprised to see that he was in his pyjamas. Did… did Sherlock undress him last night? What actually happened to make Sherlock so… weird?

He suddenly became all too self-aware. John grabbed the duvet from his bed and wrapped himself up so entirely that his face was barely poking out.

Waddling forward, he made his way slowly down the stairs and into their cluttered livingroom. Just as he turned the corner, John saw Sherlock leaning down to grab something from the floor. He stayed motionless, wondering what held the detective's attention. Sherlock's lithe hands reached down to a pile of clothing by the desk that held his microscope. As soon as John's honeyed eyes saw those clothes, the memory of the day before slapped him in the face.

Sherlock had been naked. He had walked into the flat to see his friend sitting naked in a chair, looking through a microscope.

He felt his cheeks flush from under the duvet, but instead of opening his mouth to speak he continued to watch. The detective pulled the clothes from the floor, frowning as he examined them. Only when John really saw them did he actually _see_ them.

The clothes had once been a pair of black trousers and a pale blue shirt, but they were now reduced to crisp pieces of material, crumbling slightly as they were disturbed.

_Oh John, you're a fucking dolt._

Instantly he understood. Somehow, Sherlock had managed to set himself on fire. _That_ was why he was nak-

"Ohmygod! Sherlock, are you alright?"

John rushed forward without thinking, the image of Sherlock's burning body flashing through his mind and causing his heart to flutter in a panic. Sherlock turned just as John's foot caught the duvet and he was flung forward.

He was caught awkwardly by the slender man, whom he noticed winced when John grabbed his forearms.

"You're hurt." It wasn't a question.

John chucked the useless duvet from his shoulders, forgetting completely that his body was still purging itself of the poison and that his legs were weak from the effort. He grabbed the detective without a word, using his left hand to straighten the arm and his right to slowly slide the sleeve of Sherlock's dressing-gown upwards.

When he saw the skin underneath, John hissed in sympathy. Sherlock's usual pale skin had been transformed into an angry, raw red. He could see where the flames had licked up his skin, scorching the flesh and leaving a pattern of viscous blisters in its wake. He shook his head as his deft fingers gently ran up the length of the burn.

"Oh, Sherlock…" he breathed, his eyes flashing with a barely contained rage.

When John wordlessly rolled up the other sleeve, an identical patterns of raw skin followed. He looked up into the detective's face, finally understanding everything with angry clarity.

"What happened?"

Sherlock shrugged, attempting to draw his arms away from John's iron grip.

"I may have… miscalculated."

"Miscalculated? Sherlock, you were one step away from charring your skin to the bone! Why in the hell didn't you go to the hospital? Or at least tell _me_?"

As Sherlock's piercing eyes penetrated his skull, John found it hard not to squirm.

"You didn't give me a chance."

The words were like a blow to the stomach, knocking all wind from him. He grit his teeth against the pain, casting his eyes downwards and turning on his heel.

Sherlock watched as John retreated from the room. He found a sudden urge to sigh, but refrained, instead shaking his arms and unravelling the sleeves.

He hissed as the coarse material dragged against the tender flesh, but then scowled at his reaction. If there was one thing on the Earth that Sherlock hated – it was pain. It was the one thing that caused uncontrolled actions. His gasp, for example. Never would he allow another human being to see something so pathetically human. Sherlock prided himself on being a walking mystery to the outer world. He learned long ago that no one could understand him anyway, so why give any semblance of humanity? It was pointless.

Yet he couldn't quite place his own expression as he saw John leave the room. From his knowledge of the doctor, he was sympathetic, even towards the impossible consulting detective. After so many months of being coddled by the man, he was more than shocked to see him retreat from such obvious injuries.

But then again, even Sherlock knew when the line was crossed. It seldom stopped him from walking over, but he could understand people's reactions, even though he feigned ignorance. It was simply less problematic.

So Sherlock sat back heavily in his chair, pulling himself closer to the table, when something was slammed onto the desk.

The noirette felt himself jump before inwardly cursing himself at another outward reaction. He studied the small green box before the white cross on the front registered in his mind. It was an odd sensation, feeling his mind having to catch up. And it was somehow becoming more frequent.

"Why did you roll your sleeves down?" Sherlock glanced at the doctor as he tisked like an old woman before ushering him around with wide, mother-like gestures. Sherlock wordlessly obeyed, attempting within his mind to analyse the small spark of emotion in his chest at the doctor's sudden reappearance.

He watched as John took the box before pushing messily piled folders further along the desk. He then leant himself against it, opening the box and examining it's contents.

The noirette found himself watching the doctor with sudden curiosity. John was obviously angry again. His pupils were dilated so far that his eyes appeared black. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he studied the man. Every part of his body was tense and he clawed at the contents of the med kit as if he was some kind of vulture ripping intestines from it's prey.

Yet when the doctor's eyes flickered upwards, catching the detective just for a second, he saw a glimpse of gold regain rein.

"Where's that fucking cream..." The words were so soft and yet their meaning was so violent.

The detective felt his head cock to the side like a concentrating puppy. There was something about the doctor, something that had changed. He could see it simmering just under the skin. As he began to slowly pull up the sleeves once again, Sherlock studied the doctor in an attempt to unravel the secret to his anger.

John took out a gauze and a white plastic bottle. He watched as the doctor snapped into place, completely dominating the man whom was once John Watson. His entire demeanour changed and all black was burned from his eyes as they focused on the task ahead.

Sherlock knew, without a doubt, that the alcohol was going to sting. He hated the sensation. Just as the gauze was put to his inflamed skin, the detective closed his eyes and sent his conscious within the confinements of his mind, turning the pain into a dull throb that he barely registered.

In his mind he pulled out a single file. Stamped military style on the front was one name.

_Watson, John A._

He studied his HD memories of the last twenty-four hours.

_John left for work. Unshaven. Irritable. Late. Busy. Hungry. Stopped at Tesco. Arrived home. Became irrationally angry. Shouted then left. Came back. Left again. Stayed out for over six hours. Became inebriated. Left the pub. Saved by Sherlock. Put to bed._

He paused and rewound his memories countless times, examining each and every detail. All he could conclude was that John was angry at him. It was possible that half the reason was because he had been naked. But John was a doctor - was a soldier. A naked man would not phase him in the least. _Some_thing was wrong.

"Sherlock? Better?"

His eyes snapped open, the pupils focusing instantly and settling on John as he clasped the kit shut. He glanced down at his newly bandaged arms and was pleasantly surprised that the constant burning had somewhat dimmed.

Sherlock focused back on the doctor for another few seconds before he couldn't bare it.

"You're angry."

Honeyed eyes flickered upwards. "What? No I'm not."

"John, please. You could at least have the decency not to lie to my face. Its rather insulting."

The doctor gave a small sigh before folding the box under his arm. Sherlock noted that he kept his eyes downward.

"OK, fine. I'm angry. Satisfied?"

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow. Even though the doctor didn't look up, he assumed that John already knew the answer to his idiotic question.

"I'm just pissed off at myself, that's all. I shouldn't have gotten shitty with you yesterday, I should have known that you'd – Look, it's fine. I'm OK, really. And I'm sorry that I shouted at you yesterday."

Sherlock could see the hesitation clearly embedded in the doctor's creased eyebrows, but even _he_ knew when to stop talking. So instead of interrogating him further, he let the doctor walk away. Minutes later, John settled in his chair and unfolded his paper, the movement so familiar that he saw the doctor instantly relax.

The detective, on the other hand, turned back to his microscope. Yet as he let his eyes took in the blood sample, his mind was wondering elsewhere. He didn't know what, but something was clearly on the doctor's mind.

And one way or another, Sherlock would find out what.


	3. Cold Sweat: Distress

**Hi there, lovely reader. Thanks so much for sticking by this story! I know there's not much to go on now, but I honestly swear this story has a point lol. **

**And this chapter - Plot! Actual freakin' plot! Yay! So now we're going to get into the throw of it. I'm trying to build things up, and if it seems a little confusing then that's intentional lol. Hope you like it though! Please leave a review. Review make me happy and the more I receive the more motivation it gives me to write ;-) **

**Oh and I just re-watched Sherlock... innuendo's much? Am I right? Hells yeah. Fistbumped, bitch.**

**And to Steanne: Nah. I don't wanna. You didn't say 'please' :-P**

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"Well isn't it obvious?"

"Hm, is it? Sorry, I wasn't listening." John flicked the paper straight and continued to skim the headlines.

"Of course it's not to you, you're a bloody idiot. No, it's something else, _something_ more."

John gave out a sigh as the rhythmic pounding of Sherlock's footsteps came to a standstill. He didn't glance up, even though he wanted to. He could already see Sherlock's expression. Seemingly blank, but eyes bright. He'd just figured something out.

"I've got it! John, it's so simple! John! John, don't you care? I've just solved this murder."

John bit his bottom lip to stop his smirk. For a man so brilliant, Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than a child with a new toy. He'd just found his favourite teddy bear.

He half expected a long, whiny _Jooooohn _ to follow.

Instead, something catapulted into his lap, catching him in the ribs and knocking the breath from him. Looking up, John gasped as he came face-to-face with a pair of dazzling azure eyes. Any witty comment, any trace of humour was instantly gone as he was engulfed in the tantalising scent that was Sherlock.

It was a mixture of chemicals, soap, nicotine and coffee. He almost smelled like a doctor. Almost.

The man was curled surprisingly small on his lap, small enough to balance his knees on the armrests of John's small chair.

"Sh – Sherlock, ah, wh- wh- what are you doing?"

John found himself leaning so far back into the chair that it was straining his neck. He could feel the warmth from Sherlock's body seeping into his lap. A wash of adrenaline swept through him, mingling with the heat that pumped downwards.

"I've figured it out, John. I've solved it."

Sherlock's sweet breath blew gently against his cheek as the deep purr of his voice sent a violent shiver down John's spine. He tried to swallow back the lump in his throat, but his mouth was bone dry.

"The, uh, the case? The murder? You – you've figured out the murder?"

John felt his stomach drop as his eyes locked with that piercing gaze. Sherlock steadily leant forward, his Cheshire grin spreading from ear to ear. He only stopped when his curved nose gently brushed against the top of John's.

"I've solved the case, John," he breathed. John felt his breathing hitch as those words caressed his skin. Every nerve in his body was screaming. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins. It was swaying in a panicked rhythm, colouring his cheeks and burning him from the inside out.

"What… what case?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked downwards, studying John's lips. The doctor had an overwhelming urge to lick his lips, but the rational part of his brain that was still functioning told him to push the madman away. John did neither.

"Well its obvious."

"Is it?" His words were followed with a shocked gasp as something deliciously hard rolled against his lap. The bolt of pleasure was so mind-numbing that it took him way too long to realise what had happened.

Sherlock had moved his knees from the armchair and was now completely atop him, straddling him. The heat was… Sherlock.

"Oh, John. Excited are we?"

The doctor felt his mouth water as the detective moved his hips an inch. The friction had him biting his tongue. John felt every muscle in his body shaking from the strain of holding himself so rigid. The heat soaring through him was cooing him, lulling him to relax. He couldn't.

He couldn't.

The thought gave him one sweet moment of clarity, enough to grab Sherlock's shoulders and hold the man still.

"Sherlock what the hell are you doing? What is this?"

Sherlock's bright eyes shimmered in the faint light as he raked them over John's face, again settling on his lips.

"But John, I 've figured it out."

"Figured what out, Sherlock?" demanded the doctor, his brow creasing in frustration. The detective simply smiled.

"You."

"No!"

John gasped as he threw himself upwards, grabbing at the enemies around him. He felt his chest heaving up and down. His back was slick with sweat and he could feel droplets running down his face. His lip quivered in the darkness as the weight of his dream crushed his lungs. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, petrified and trying to escape.

"Oh, god…" he breathed, covering his face in his hands.

Just as the rush of blood in his eyes began to dim, the doctor just made out another sound. It was a symphony of bumps, which ended with a violent crash against his door.

"Jesus!"

"John? John, are you alright?"

The doctor hissed as the light assaulted his sensitive eyes. He turned to the shadow in his doorframe. From the outline, he knew it was Sherlock. It took over three heartbeats for him to see the detective clearly, and when he did, John felt his heart drop into his stomach.

Sherlock had clearly been asleep. His usually tame curls were stuck in all directions. Not only that, but he clearly hadn't had a chance to grab his robe, as he stood in nothing but his crinkled pyjama bottoms. He felt his mouth go dry as the ghost of his dream crept along his lap.

"John?"

The doctor opened his mouth to speak when the detective was before him, just as close as dream-Sherlock had been. He sucked in a breath but thankfully that Cheshire grin didn't come. Sherlock grabbed John's face and pulled his cheek downward, exposing the whites of his right eye. Not too carefully, either.

"Hey! What – Sherlock I'm fine. Get off!"

He batted the man away, but the noirette was surprisingly strong. John scoffed but let the detective do a quick examination of his eyes. He must have come to some kind of conclusion because he backed away, heading towards the door.

Before he could even form a cognitive word, the door to his room was shut and John was enveloped in darkness once again. He gave out a sigh before falling back unceremoniously onto his pillow. Using his hips to navigate, John slowly turned himself onto his side to face the small window.

There was just a slight illumination through the pane, meaning that the moon must have been pretty high. It was probably late. And he had just embarrassed himself in front of his flatmate, waking up screaming like some terrified kid. He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to block out the rush of heat that passed through his stomach.

Terrified? Was that the word? He wasn't so sure.

Closing his eyes was a futile gesture because now he was completely awake. Instead of fighting for sleep, John kept his eyes on the window and let his mind wonder.

Sherlock had never come into his room before. Well, he did once, but that was just to steal his iPod, complaining that 'the blasted device' was distracting the doctor from answering his questions. John smiled. The only reason Sherlock was annoyed about the iPod was because after one of his experiments had set the furthest room on fire, John had pointedly ignored him, plugging in his earphones and listening to Coldplay for the remainder of the day.

It wasn't like the detective to be so… concerned. It unsettled the doctor more than his dream.

Well, almost.

"Yes. Yes. Yes, Mycroft. Yes… _no_…"

John hid his amused smile with the spoon in his hand, feigning ignorance as he stared at the TV screen. Sherlock was pacing back and forth, casting small shadows over the screen but John didn't mind. He shoveled another mouthful of Cheerios into his mouth, smirking as he heard Sherlock's phone close with a climactic snap.

"So… how's Mycroft?" asked the doctor sweetly.

His reply was a sneer before Sherlock flopped onto the couch. John snickered and turned his attention back to the news.

They sat in a fairly tense silence, John eating his cereal and Sherlock fuming like a baby, until the shrill tone of his mobile went off again.

"Piss of Mycroft. Oh. Yes, Lestrade? How many dead… where? On my way." Another snap. "Come on, John. There's been a murder."

Sherlock was positively gleeful. John sighed, shoving three continuous mouthfuls of the hoops into his gob before he was physically dragged to his feet. He barely had time to grab his coat before he was slipping down the stairs and into the crisp London air.

Sherlock was lucky that he had a day off today. Even if he did, John wasn't sure that he would still be standing in the muddy field. The air around them was so thick with moisture that it was seeping into his coat and making him decidedly more miserable.

The police were buzzing around like bees to honey, and the queen bee was no where to be seen. He had flocked after the Inspector as soon as he saw him.

John couldn't suppress the sudden stab of emotion in his chest. He was not annoyed that Sherlock had left him. Not in the slightest.

As he stood awkwardly, he took in his surroundings.

They were in a small park somewhere on the outskirts of London, he couldn't remember the name. something posh, he concluded as he spotted the large mansion up the hill to the west. He sighed again, kicking up the wet grass with his feet.

The cold always found a was to dampen his spirits. There he was, content with his cereal and the news, wanting nothing more than to mooch on his day off but no. There was no rest for the wicked, apparently. And after his dream the night before, he hadn't slept at all. Now all he wanted was a blanket and a cuppa.

God, he sounded like an old man.

"What's wrong? Why are you pouting?"

John spun on his heels and pouted when he saw Sherlock right next to him. The man had to stop being so sneaky.

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

"Not pouting."

"Of course you are. You hate the rain."

John blinked. The small statement delivered by that baritone voice wasn't exactly innocent, just blank. A fact, nothing more. But for some reason, John found himself slightly shaken.

"I never told you that."

"Told me what?"

"That I don't like the rain."

Sherlock gave him a ghost of a smile and a look that said 'really, John.'

"You didn't have to. I was stating a fact."

_Stating a fact… I fucking hate those words._

And that was it. He was angry again. Sherlock noticed the obvious change in his companion, and instead of asking why (which was wise) he simply gestured to the taped square where the body no doubt was.

John gave him a curt nod and lead the way. He ducked under the tape easily, accepting the blue gloves from a nearby assistant and walking wordlessly towards the shadow of a figure. As he got closer, he started to see more detail.

A woman, young from the look of her. Twenties, maybe. She was lying on her side with her back facing him. One arm was against her exposed hip and the other curled slightly by her face. If there wasn't a small pool of blood seeping from a gaping wound on her forehead then he would have guessed she was just sleeping. She was wearing a beige coat and pink jumper underneath, dark jeans and brown boots.

Kneeling down beside her, he brushed her chocolate brown locks from her face and examined it. No bruising. No blood or skin under the nails. No marks on her wrists. No other visible signs of struggle.

There was just the one wound on her head. Clearly blunt forced trauma. He blinked in confusion, looking up at the detective who was hovering behind her.

"She was killed by this blow to the head. That's… that's about it."

But Sherlock's eyes were twinkling.

"Exactly!"

From his excited grin, John guessed there was far more about the predicament that he was seeing. He got to his feet and stretched his legs before quickly stripping himself of the gloves and shoving them carelessly into his pocket.

"So what am I missing?"

Sherlock smiled.

"Nothing. That's the point!"

John raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"That's the point, John! Don't you see? John, don't you see?"

John shivered as Sherlock's voice got dangerously close to the tone that he had used in his dream the night before. He prayed that the man wouldn't say his name again.

"No bruising. No signs of struggle. No fibers footprints, hair, skin – nothing! Her clothes aren't even ruffled. The only thing that we know is that she was killed by a blow to the head. She was clearly placed here, in that _exact_ spot and that _exact_ position. Someone wanted us to find her like this. It's a game, John. Someone's playing with us."

John tried not to grimace at the delicious grin spreading over Sherlock's lips. He sighed.

No warm blanket and tea today, then.


	4. Laboured Breathing: Hysteria

**Well lookie here, don't I just spoil you all? Two chapters in two days! After I finished chapter 3 last night I may have stayed up till 6 in the morning writing this chapter. Why, you say? Why indeed.**

**Because it's Sherlock, and I am crazy. **

**Enjoy some fluffy stuffs. Review and let me know how I'm doing! Maybe there's something you'd like to see? I'm not against suggestions ;-)**

* * *

"God, isn't this wonderful?"

John frowned as Sherlock did an actual twirl. In the middle of the street. It was the campest thing he had ever seen the noirette do.

"That girl is dead, Sherlock. At least show a little respect."

"Why? She won't care."

John opened his mouth to argue, instead snapping it shut audibly. He continued to walk briskly whilst keeping his companion walking forward and trying to stop him from breaking out in a dance and booming 'I'm Singing in the Rain'.

They finally hailed a cab back to Scotland Yard, but he knew the body wouldn't be in the mortuary for a while yet and then it would be even longer as they bagged and tagged her.

So before Sherlock could unleash himself on the Yard for hours of torture, he steered him away towards the first café they came to. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he was hoping to coax the detective into conversation for at least an hour or two.

They found a seat towards the back. It was a nice little place, cosy. The walls were a warm red and there were black and white canvases on the wall depicting scenes of coffee cups and people drinking coffee. He could feel Sherlock buzzing next to him and had the urge to laugh. He ordered them two black coffees and a slice of carrot cake when the waitress approached, and he didn't miss the look she slipped Sherlock's way, either.

When she retreated to make their drinks, John turned to the detective. He had his hands in his black coat pockets and was hunched up like a coiled spring. John was only biding his time until it sprang open.

"She was totally giving you the look."

Sherlock blinked before turning his sharp eyes John's way.

"What?"

"The waitress. She gave you the big eyes."

"John that sentence doesn't even resemble sense."

He smiled and shook his head just as the waitress returned, placing John's cup down without a second glance. However, when she slid Sherlock's coffee his way, she lingered, obviously waiting for some kind of attention. John nudged Sherlock's leg, but the detective's face was resolute. The girl gave a small pout before sauntering away.

"You don't have to be rude."

"What? John, be quiet. I'm thinking."

The doctor chuckled under his breath and took a sip of his coffee. As he let his mind wonder back to the girl from this morning, he couldn't help but feel like she was familiar. Her face was pretty, but plain. Nothing about her was particularly memorable, but he knew her from somewhere. Maybe she was a patient at his clinic? But then what would she be doing all the way out here?

Maybe she was brought here? If everything had been 'set' as Sherlock determined, then she was put in that exact place for a reason.

He worried the inside of his cheek, turning to the carrot cake slice before him. Just as he was about to bring a forkful to his lips, he felt something warm touch his cheek. He turned, shocked, when his vision was invaded and he was enveloped in a chemically laced scent. He felt the soft brush of lips against his own before the fork in his hand clattered on the table.

Everything around him seem to hush as his brain struggled to catch up to his situation.

Before he could blink, the invasion was over and he was just staring as Sherlock whipped out his phone and began texting. Part of him was sure he just imagined it.

But when he cast his eyes around the room to see if anyone saw, he caught the eye of the waitress who served them. She gave him a sharp, pointed glare before turning back to her work.

"What… what…"

"Calm down, John. Easiest solution to an irritating situation."

He could feel his hysteria building and he was one word away from a major freak out.

"I… what…?"

Sherlock finally seemed to notice John's panicked expression. When warm hands touched his shoulder, the doctor's head snapped towards him.

"John… are you, you alright?"

"You… you just…"

Sherlock smiled, squeezing his shoulder. "Calm down. Homosexuality is the best façade for unwanted attention. Here, drink your coffee."

The warm mug was gently slipped into his hands, and he took it, unsure of what to do and unsure of how to react. So he sipped the coffee, letting the warmth seep through him and somehow, he managed to reign in his emotions.

_Sherlock kissed you. No big deal. Nothing to… to freak about. Just. Calm. Down._

"What did you dream about? Was it the war?"

The smooth, deep voice drew his attention and he glanced up. Sherlock was still tapping on his phone, but he was craned slightly, awaiting an answer.

"Er… what? The war? No. Yes! I mean yes. Horrible stuff."

He tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock was making conversation to calm him down. But somehow, it worked. He thought back to his dream and found heat creeping up his neck. He turned from Sherlock's lips, instead picking up the fork and starting on the cake again.

Then he remembered.

"Why, why did you come in? You've never come in when I had a nightmare before."

His tone was curious with just a hint of his previous hysteria, but Sherlock looked up anyway. As their eyes locked, he could see the detective's thoughts racing. Something in his usual cold glance was different. Like a lick of colour of something.

"Because you called my name."

His jaw hit the table the same time his mug did. John heard the clatter and frowned, drawing his attention away. The waitress came jogging over, cloth in hand as John picked up the now cracked mug. He used the distraction to even out his breathing. Every bone in his body wanted to run. To open that door and run until his lungs were burning. He couldn't stay here anymore.

As he turned to tell this to Sherlock, the detective snapped his mobile shut.

"The body's in the morgue. Come on."

Sherlock was up and handing a note to the waitress before John could do anything more than nod. He scrambled to follow, shooting the waitress an apologetic look. She just sneered.

But the doctor was far too jumbled to notice. Instead he kept his head low and swiftly followed his friend, praying that Sherlock didn't feel particularly deductive at that moment.

"Her name is Maggie Wulfon, twenty-five," peeped Molly, passing the clipboard to Sherlock. He snatched it away without a second glance, scanning over the brief notes.

"Was she registered as missing?"

Molly shrugged, her light brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. John felt a wave of pity towards the girl. She was clearly given a heads-up about Sherlock's presence given she was wearing make-up and her hair had been styled. She batted her mascaraed eyelashes at him in a desperate bid for his attention. John couldn't help but think back to the small kiss not an hour before. He felt himself flush with guilt.

Sherlock didn't miss a beat, throwing the doctor a quick glance before focusing on the small brunette.

"Can I see the body?" He gave her a tight smile. "Please?"

She smiled sheepishly, twirling her fingers within each other.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but the body's still being proce-"

"You've changed your hair."

She blinked. "What?"

"The colour. It's darker, and a little shorter. It suits you. Makes your eyes brighter."

He saw her cheeks flood with colour as she stammered to reply, clearly overwhelmed by Sherlock's compliment. The doctor frowned, annoyed at Sherlock's obvious manipulation. But little Molly was oblivious, agreeing to Sherlock's request and leading the way into the mortuary.

John followed, assaulted by the acrid smell of death and bleach. He walked around to the highlighted slab where the body lay.

She had been stripped but not yet cleaned as the blood was still crusted on her face and her hair still dry. As he studied her under the light, he took her in. Soft, kind features. Slender. When Sherlock shooed Molly away and pulled on a pair of gloves, John watched as the consulting detective began to examine her.

The sheet was pulled back and John grunted, averting his eyes out of habit.

"Come on, John. She hardly has modesty now."

"Sherlock!"

The noirette didn't turn, instead taking a mini microscope from his pockets and running it closely over her skin. The doctor stood by, watching him work and running her face through his memory. By the time he concluded that he had never seen her before, Sherlock made some kind of triumphant cry.

John hurried around as he was gestured forward. Sherlock was studying her right hand, and more precisely, her middle finger.

"Look."

John leant forward and peered through the microscope. It took him a couple of seconds to see the faint nick just in the lip of her nail.

"Sherlock, that could be anything-"

"It's a puncture wound, from a syringe. Smart to inject her under the nail, but this person was careless, they obviously weren't trained with a needle and didn't go far enough under the nail to completely cover it. I was right! She was drugged and then killed, placed in the park for us to find."

John blinked, astounded and dubious at the same time.

"That seems a little far-fetched, even to me, Sherlock." But the noirette was shaking his head, pulling off his gloves.

"I'm sure of it!"

John sighed as the man sauntered off through the door. He bent down and grabbed the sheet, drawing it out above her and covering her once again.

"At least you had a small mercy," he said, not sure how he felt about her being drugged before.

The doctor turned away, making a silent promise to find out who her killer was. She would get some justice, even if he didn't figure it out himself.

"We know she was drugged beforehand, whether it was a lethal dose or not the tests will show. But then the killer went through the effort of hitting her over the head. Why? If she was drugged and already dead, then that blow was an effect…"

Sherlock's words trailed off as he fell back into his thoughts. John just nodded, taking a deep draught of his beer.

The pub they had stopped in was small and close to Baker Street. He had somewhat convinced the detective to stop for a moment so they could eat. Well, so that John could eat. Sherlock only ordered coffee but he was determined to get him to eat something. Maybe a cake?

"And those clothes… they weren't her original ones."

John raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"The clothes. They were new. The end of the plastic tag was on the label of the jacket."

"Maybe it was just a new jacket."

"No. Everything was new. There was no trace of her smell on the clothes, and she was clearly wearing perfume, I could smell it on her skin. But there was only a faint whiff on her jumper. This is exciting, John! Why would someone drug her, strip her and change her clothes just to the bash her on the head and leave her in the park?"

John carried on with his burger before he felt eyes on him. There was a slight niggle on the back of his neck as Sherlock's piercing gaze penetrated him.

"Well I don't know. We don't even know where she lives. Let's just wait for Lestrade to call and we'll go to her house. I'm sure there are more answers there. Chip?"

Sherlock frowned, but John smiled when he saw a slender finger snake out and steal a chip.

By nine, Sherlock was fuming.

They had rang Lestrade, but the Inspector had no new news. He had promptly sent Sherlock home, and John didn't know what was worse; waiting for a word from Lestrade or having to deal with Sherlock waiting for Lestrade.

After just twenty minutes, he already had a headache.

"Why don't you just… write out the facts we've got or something?"

Sherlock spun on his heel, an incredulous looks on his face. John shifted. Shit.

"Write… _write it down?_" The noirette basically hissed the words. "I don't need to _write it down_. I'm completely capable of remembering the facts or lack thereof!"

John blinked, completely startled. Sherlock was raging. He only ever saw this when the detective was either ridiculously sleep-deprived or completely dumbfounded. Which wasn't often. Not the stumped bit, anyway.

"I'm sure that more will come to light, just be patient Sherlock."

"Patient! This is the first case in over a month and now I've been stopped before its even started! God, I hate this!"

John flinched as he heard a loud thump. Looking up from the paper he was pretending to read, John saw the shattered remains of his laptop.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

His voice carried so loudly over the tense room that Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide. John was on his feet, his fists curled by his side.

"I can't believe you! You're such a fucking _child_, Sherlock! You cant even wait the few hours it'll take to find out where that poor girl lived! You just – you drive me blood crazy Sherlock! Its worse than living with a teenage girl!"

John didn't look up as he stomped towards the stairs. As he stopped in his doorway, he put all his anger into his voice.

"And you owe me a new laptop!"

He couldn't sleep that night from the anger. It had been one hell of a day.

Dead girl. A weird kiss. And now a broken bloody laptop… Harry had given it to him, but it was still worth a bit of money. There was no way he could afford a new one, and he knew that Sherlock's computer was in eight billion pieces, dissected on the kitchen table.

John rubbed his tired eyes, annoyed and frustrated.

Something was under the detective's skin or else he wouldn't have gotten so angry. With a grunt he turned to his side, taking comfort from the small window. He had the day off tomorrow so he would just catch up on sleep during the day – but that wasn't the point. He shouldn't have to catch up on anything, he should be allowed to sleep when he wanted to, damn it!

After a restless eternity, the sun finally broke the darkness and John heaved a sigh.

He decided that enough was enough, leaving the comfort of his blankets and wrapping himself in his thick robe. He managed to find a pair of socks as well, remembering that his slippers were the poor victims of Sherlock's experiments.

Another spike of anger coursed through him.

Was there nothing he could have that the bloody fool wouldn't break, burn or disassemble?

John stomped downstairs, his mood worsening with every step. By the time he hit the bottom, the doctor was ready to wring Sherlock's neck.

Although when he saw the sorry sight on the couch, John stopped dead in his tracks.

Sherlock had fallen asleep. He had snuggled up to the far corner with one leg tucked underneath him. His head had fallen to the side, casting his curls over his pale features, creating a stark contrast.

But what made John's shoulders slump, and his anger disperse, was the box sat on Sherlock's lap. He had his arms around it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

The picture on the front made John smile sadly.

It was a new laptop.

John walked steadily over to him, reaching out to shake his shoulder but stopped as his eyes swept over the sleeping figure. He had never seen the detective sleeping before. It was an unusual sight, and one he should probably study.

In sleep, Sherlock's features were soft, no tight-lipped grimace, no hardened eyes. He saw how young the man really was and it got him to thinking his age. He thought that Sherlock was about the same age as him, but looking at his peaceful face now, he began to doubt.

He stopped a hands reach away from the noirette.

Everything about Sherlock was harsh. His pale skin. His dark hair. His features were strong, defined, regal. He was tall but not lacking in muscle. Yet there were softer features to him as well, the doctor had seen them. When he smiled, it lit up his whole face. When he wasn't deducing, his eyes were a pale blue, calm like a summer sea. He really was a case and a half, Sherlock Holmes.

Without really knowing what he was doing, John found his finger slipping across the smooth skin of Sherlock's temple and brushing a stray curl from his eye. It revealed his pointed nose and smooth, cupid bow's lips. With a sigh, he leant back slightly, knowing he should probably wake him and make him get into bed.

"Sher-"

The doctor was cut off by the sharp shrill of Sherlock's mobile. John leant back, about to turn away when he noticed Sherlock's eyes flicker open without so much as a pause. The phone was already in his hand and he brought it effortlessly to his ear.

"Yes? Good. Where? …fine."

He phone was snapped shut. Sherlock, keeping his bright eyes on the doctor, slowly rose to his feet. He held out the box to John, which he reluctantly took, staring at Sherlock with his mouth agape. The man simply smirked; a small tug at the corner of his mouth.

"Clothes, John. The girl's apartment's been found."

And with that, he walked away. John stood there like a paralyzed fish, astounded and speechless.

_The bastard... was awake._


End file.
